:

end of his thumb to his nose, and gently fanning the air with his extended fingers; and then seizing his whip again, he made it crack over the ears of his smoking leaders. The lady at last threw herself back in despair, as we rattled past the little dusty hole called, in derision, Contoit's Garden, and the great lumbering, greenish-brown pile of bricks opposite, called, by way of an experiment in bumbast, the •Carlton House.'

And here we came well nigh being overturned, and dashed against the curb-stone, in consequence of our driver suffering his attention to be arrested by two flamingly-dressed young ladies, who winked at him as they turned down into Leonard-street. Here we caught a glimpse of several objects, each of which would require a separate essay, if noticed properly : the Egyptian prison, the Church du St. Esprit, the new library, and the ruined theatre ; and the next moment, we were opposite the noble hospital, happily built of good substantial stone, before stuccoed walls and Grecian porticoes were in fashion, standing in the midst of venerable trees, with green creepers almost covering its sober front, and a neatly-trimmed lawn stretching between it and the street - as bright as the greenest park in old England — to gladden the eyes of the passers-by. A monstrous heap of rubbish in the middle of the street once more endangered our lives and limbs, and arrested the headway of our chase, who was fast gaining upon us. Our driver gave a yell of delight, and on we sped; but my sympathies were somewhat excited, by observing that the wheels of our omnibus threw a complete shower of black mud upon the crimson mantilla of a very pretty woman, who had incautiously ventured too near the curb-stone, at the corner of Duane-street; and a little farther on, I perceived, on looking back, that the opposition had overturned two porters, who were very carefully conveying a large mirror on a hand-barrow across the street. Fortunately, neither of them was killed, although the mirror was smashed into a greater number of pieces than it would have been easy to enumerate. And then we passed Clover's — where Linen's beautiful portraits of Clay and Webster may be seen-in fine style, leaving our pursuer well behind us. Of course, we were soon dashing past Washington Hall; and at another time I should have regretted passing it in such haste, for it presents a thousand times the finest facade of any building in Broadway, from Battery Place to Union Square; and as there is a prospect of its being speedily demolished, I love to look at it. Let me entreat the architect of the contemplated theatre, whoever he may be, so to arrange his plan, as to leave the present front entire.

And now we were careering it over the wooden pavements. What a relief to our limbs, after rumbling a mile or two over dislocating cobbles ! And here are all the gayeties of the Park. The old Bridewell is gone, and the pride of our noble city stands revealed in all her beauty; and beautiful she is, in spite of the wooden abortion which has been stuck upon her roof.

Chance now, as in many a renowned contest, must determine the victory, for the crowd of carriages thickens fast. It is an easy matter to overturn an old apple-woman, or even a dandy phaeton; but a loaded dray presents an obstacle, that, like the will of the people, must be respected. And here, too, are numerous pyramids of bricks,

which care no more for an omnibus than do the pyramids of the desert for old Time, who has whetted his scythe upon them for a longer period than men know of.

If oaths and curses could avail any thing, we should have been distanced long since. The opposition has exhausted the swearer's vocabulary a dozen times; but our gallant driver spurs on his cattle with a good-natured hullaballoo, which contrasts favorably with the savage ferocity of his rival. We catch a glimpse of time-honored Columbia College, and its noble elms, and we are again on the cobbles. Goodness, what a change! It is like laying down Tom Moore, and taking up doctor M'Henry!

Crash! smash! The drivers swear, the horses plunge, the lady screams; but there is no great damage, only one corner of the omnibus torn off. Away we go, without heeding it. Here is our triumph! All the world is looking at us. What a moment! We are almost a length ahead of the opposition! Twenty dandies, with cigars in their mouths, and small tufts of hair on their upper lips, are gazing at us from the steps of the Astor House. A whole drove of little folks, who have been treated to a sight of the wonders in Scudder's Museum, clap their little hands with delight, as we rush past. All the coachmen on the Park stand mount their boxes to look at us; and a mettlesome gray horse, with a militia officer on his back, takes fright, and scampers down Barclay-street, in fine style. Away we fly, past St. Paul's Church, with our pursuer hard upon our heels, splashing and dashing, slam-bang, and mingling with dirt-carts, oyster-carts, and milk-wagons, until we get inextricably interlocked with a whole caravan of brokers' and bankers' clerks, fleeing from Wall-street in every possible description of vehicles. The horses blow hard, and throw off steam like a locomotive. Our driver waxes moderate in the use of his whip and his oaths. The excitement is fast cooling; and after repeated struggles to get clear, we at last have the mortification of seeing the opposition drive past us, and we reach Bowling Green just two minutes after him.

and

After all, what is the use of striving to out-race our fellows in this world? If we win, our spirits have all evaporated in the contest; if we lose, we have nothing but mortification for our exertions. With such reflections, I stepped out of the omnibus, and left my fair fellow traveller disputing with the driver about her fare; for she very justly refused to pay for her ride down, unless he would agree to take her back to the place of her destination, free of charge.

LITERARY NOTICES.

ALCIPHRON A POEM. BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ., Author of 'Lalla Rookh,' etc. pp.71. Philadelphia: CAREY AND HART.

It is so long since we have had a poem, of any magnitude, from any of the distinguished poets of the day, that the announcement of one by the universal favorite of the public, THOMAS MOORE, created an unusual sensation. It is now some fifteen years, since the Utilitarian obtained the ascendancy over the Romantic, in public sentiment; but such is the strong natural tendency of the human mind to poetical ideas, that even the former has now assumed almost a poetical spirit. It is probable, therefore, that the reign of poetry may soon be restored again, blended with the peculiar utilitarian spirit of the age. It could hardly have been expected, however, that MOORE, the most romantic poet of the romantic school, would be the first to adapt poetry to the peculiar spirit of the times; yet in 'Alciphron,' he has blended much at least of the utilitarian philosophy, which is essentially epicurean. This poem contains many of the thoughts and senti ments heretofore given to the public by the same author, in his prose work called 'The Epicurean;' but of course is wholly different in its structure and imagery. It consists of several letters from Alciphron, a Greek epicurean philosopher, from Alexandria, in Egypt, whither he had gone, beside the sacred Nile, to find the 'the eternal life.' The feeling that impelled him in this search, is forcibly depicted in the following lines, describing a night in the garden of their seat at Athens:

That night-thou haply may'st forget
Its loveliness- but 't was a night
To make earth's meanest slave regret
Leaving a world so soft and bright.
On one side, in the dark blue sky,
Lonely and radiant, was the eye

Of Jove himself, while, on the other,

'Mong stars that came out one by one,
The young moon like the Roman mother
Among her living jewels-shone.

'Oh that from yonder orbs,' I thought,

'Pure and eternal as they are,

There could to earth some power be brought,
Some charm, with their own essence fraught,

To make man deathless as a star,

And open to his vast desires

A course as boundless and sublime,

As lies before those comet-fires,

That roam and burn throughout all time!'

The ardent and pleasure-seeking philosopher, however anxious for knowledge, is still more devoted to love. He wanders among the pyramids, temples, and tombs of Egypt, the former of which are spoken of in the annexed brilliant lines:

'And mark, 't is nigh; already the sun bids

His evening farewell to the Pyramids,

As he hath done, age after age, till they

Alone on earth seem ancient as his ray;

While their great shadows, stretching from the light,

Look like the first colossal steps of Night,

Stretching across the valley, to invade

The distant hills of porphyry with their shade.'

While visiting the Temple of the Moon, in a bright island of the Nile, he sees among the maiden worshippers, one that captivates every sense, and fixes even his epicurean sentiments. He barely sees her, however, when she escapes. He traces her flight to a pyramid, which he enters, and following its labyrinths, again sees her, in the attitude of worship, and is so awe-struck by her innocent devotion, that he allows her to escape again, though she is still somewhere in the aisles or windings of the pyramid. After watching and waiting a long time, he resolves to penetrate the most hidden recesses of the structure; and this wild pursuit, and its adventures, are described with wonderful power. What can be more spirited than the following lines?

But short the hope-for, as I flew
Breathlessly up, the stairway grew
Tremulous under me, while each
Frail step, ere scarce my foot could reach
The frailer yet I next must trust,
Crumbled behind me into dust;
Leaving me, as it crushed beneath,

Like shipwreck'd wretch who, in dismay,
Sees but one plank 'twixt him and death,
And shuddering feels that one give way!
And still I upward went with nought

Beneath me but that depth of shade, And the dark flood from whence I caught Each sound the falling fragments made. Was it not fearful? - still more frail

At every step crush'd the light stair,
While, as I mounted, e'en the rail

That up into that murky air
Was my sole guide, began to fail!
When, stretching forth an anxious hand,
Just as, beneath my tottering stand,
Steps, railway, all together went,

I touch'd a massy iron ring,
That there by what kind genius sent
I know not in the darkness hung

And grasping it, as drowners cling
To the last hold, so firm I clung,
And through the void suspended hung.
Sudden, as if that mighty ring

Were link'd with all the winds in heav'n,
And, like the touching of a spring,

My eager grasp had instant given
Loose to all blasts that ever spread
The shore or sea with wrecks and dead-
Around me, gusts, gales, whirlwinds rang
Tumultuous, and I seem'd to hang

Amidst an elemental war,

In which wing'd tempests of all kinds
And strengths that winter's stormy star
Lights through the Temple of the Winds
In our own Athens-battle round,
Deafening me with chaotic sound.
Nor this the worst for, holding still
With hands unmoved, though shrinking oft

I found myself at the wild will

Of countless whirlwinds, caught aloft,
And round and round, with fearful swing,
Swept, like a stone-shot in a sling!
Till breathless, mazed, I had begun-

So ceaselessly I thus was whirled -
To think my limbs were chained upon

That wheel of the Infernal World,
To turn which, day and night, are blowing

Hot, withering winds that never slumber;
And whose sad rounds, still going, going,
Eternity alone can number!

And yet, e'en then while worse than Fear
Hath ever dreamed, seemed hovering near,
Had voice but ask'd me, 'Is not this

A price too dear for aught below ?'

I should have said, 'For knowledge, yes-
But for bright, glorious Woman-no!'

He is at last safely deposited in the midst of scenes, the glory of which surpasses description. The poem ends with an epistle to Decius, describing, rather vaguely, this hidden paradise of Egyptian priests:

- this mine of fanes,

Gardens and palaces, where pleasure reigns,
In a rich, sunless empire of her own,

With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne.'

The poem, on the whole, is a brilliant affair, although perhaps hardly equal to the public expectation.

WALKS AND WANDERINGS IN THE WORLD OF LITERATURE. By the Author of 'The Great Metropolis, etc.' In two volumes. pp. 404. Philadelphia: CAREY AND HART. We can recommend these volumes as a good and safe sedative. Their operation is certain. We have seen no person who has read them through: and only one who did not fall asleep over the first volume, and he was troubled, while attempting its perusal, with a raging tooth. How it should ever have been possible for a man to sit down deliberately, and eke out such a work for the press, read the proof sheets as they were passing through it, and then send it forth to the public, passes our comprehension entirely. A more rambling, scrambling book, upon all imaginable themes of no interest, a more dreary expanse of trite sentiments and languid words, we have not encountered in a ten years' experience of stupid publications. Mr. GRANT Could not, it should seem,

complete the last volume, without stealing from himself— always a sign of the last extremity in an author. He has strung together a quantity of editorial paragraphs which he once perpetrated for some provincial newspaper, in his native Scotland; and if we had accidentally opened upon these, before accomplishing a perusal of the matter which precedes them, we should have been compelled to pronounce them the most ineffably insipid fragments we had ever met with. As it was, they did not surprise us.

THE PEOPLE'S OWN BOOK. BY F. DE LA MENNAIS. by NATHANIEL GREENE. In one volume. pp. 188. AND JAMES BROWN.

Translated from the French,
Boston: CHARLES C. LITTLE

THIS is a delightful book in the original, and it has received ample justice from the hands of the accomplished translator. In its brief paragraphs are often crowded whole volumes of instruction, upon the rights and duties of life. Man and society are analyzed with wonderful power of thought, and yet in the simplest terms of expression. The whole breathes a spirit of affection for the great human family, and especially unaffected sympathy for the poor and the lowly. The style is pure and flowing, as two or three selections will sufficiently evince. The necessity that exists for the universal exercise of heaven-born charity, is well set forth in the following passages:

"Justice suffices not for the wants of Humanity. Each one under his own government does indeed fully enjoy his rights; but he remains isolated in the world, deprived of the succor and aid necessary to all. Does a man want bread, they would say: let him seek it; do I prevent him? I have taken nothing that belonged to him; each one to himself and each one for himself. They would repeat the words of Cain: Am I my brother's keeper? The widow, the orphan, the sick, the feeble, would be abandoned; no reciprocal support, no disinterested kindness; every where selfishness and indifference; no more of genuine relations, no more sharing of joys or sorrows, no more of common feeling. Life, retired to the centre of each heart, would be consumed in solitude, like a lamp in a tomb, which shines only upon the ruins of man; for a man without heart, compassion, sympathy, love, what is he but a moving corpse?"

"What would a man be, selfishly concentrated within himself, neither directly injuring nor serving any one, dreaming only of himself, living only for himself? What can a people be, composed of unconnected individuals, where no one sympathizes with the misfortunes of others, nor feels himself obliged to aid or assist his fellow creatures; where all interchange of services is but a calculation of interest; where the groan of suffering, the lamentation of grief, the sob of distress, the cry of hunger, evaporate in the air as unmeaning sounds; where no blessings are diffused by a secret impulsion of that love which alone knows what it is to possess, because it enjoys only that which it gives? "Nature every where warns us of our indispensable need of each other. The divine precept of mutual aid, devotedness, and love, is every moment recalled to mind by what our eyes see around us. When the time is come for the swallows to seek in other climes the food which their heavenly Father has there prepared, they assemble together; then, inseparably they fly, aërial navigators, towards the haven of peace and abundance. Alone, what would become of any one of them? How many would escape from the perils of the route? United, they resist the winds; the failing wing supports itself upon one less frail. Poor gentle little creatures that the last spring saw peeping from their shell, the very youngest, sheltered and sustained by the older ones, attain the end of their voyage, and in the distant land to which Providence has conducted them, they enter again into those mysterious and ineffable joys which God has decreed for all beings at the entrance of life."

Little need be added, to insure the reader's attention to this charming volume. It is overflowing with love for that great multitude every where for the poor have no country who are born, are wretched, and die; whose first repose is the repose of the grave. Our philanthropic author places himself in the situation of the destitute and the friendless; and his descriptions of their estate are eminently faithful; reminding us, more than once, of CAMPBELL's kindred sketch, of one

'Condemned on Penury's barren path to roam,
Scorned by the world, and left without a home:
One who, at evening, should he chance to stray,